


Reasoned Necessity

by derryderrydown



Series: Hooker Dean [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:16:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all the monsters are supernatural.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasoned Necessity

It's harder, now that he's out of his teens. If the johns are looking for a harmless fuck with a pretty young thing, they don't look at him. They only go older if they want something a little weird, a little kinky.

A lot dangerous.

But Sam needs clothes and the car needs gas and the guns need bullets. And Dad needs hospital visits and painkillers and a cocktail of other drugs and Dr. Makeba is married to Sam's teacher, which rules out credit cards in somebody else's name. Which is just fucking _perfect_, isn't it?

Dad's stopped asking where Dean gets the money, which is as much a worry as it is a relief. If Dad's too dosed up to worry where the drugs are coming from, the pain's got to be worse than he's admitting to. Fucking poltergeists.

And Sammy... He's pretty sure Sammy actually _believes_ that Dean's working in a bar and picking up good tips. For a smart kid, he can be so damn blind.

There's a Lexus cruising up the street and Dean pushes himself off the wall and walks towards the road. He's too tired to play it up, make himself _pretty_ and sexy and younger than he is, but the car pulls in by him anyway and Dean leans on the roof and waits for the window to slide down.

The driver's a mouse. Grey and hunched in on himself as though he's hoping the world won't notice him. But he's obviously done this before because he flicks on the light to get a decent look at Dean. Dean doesn't have to hide from the light, not like some of the people out here. "How much for a fuck? My place."

Dean puts together the nice car and the nice suit and says, "Hundred bucks gets you an hour. Anything kinky is extra."

"Get in," the mouse says and Dean wishes he'd asked for more.

The door shuts with expensive silence and Dean shifts in the leather seat. "My name's Dean," he says.

"I don't care."

They rarely do.

It's a long drive out to suburbs that Dean can barely afford to look at. He thinks Sam has friends who live around around here but they never visit Sam at home. If the mouse doesn't drive him back, it's going to be a long walk or an expensive cab ride. Fuck.

They stop in front of a house that could fit the Winchesters' trailer about fifty times over. And that's just the first floor. The mouse presses a button on the dash and the garage slides open. Of course, he wouldn't want to risk the neighbours seeing Dean.

Once the garage door has shut behind them, Dean opens the car door. "Nice place," he says as he gets out and the mouse doesn't move. Dean waits a moment and says, "You want to do it here?" Hell, he's done it in weirder places.

"How much to tie you up?"

Dean's going to say five hundred but he remembers the size of the house and recalculates. "A grand." You can never tell what the bastards are going to do once they've got you relatively helpless. "And you agree to a safeword."

The mouse looks up. "I don't want to hurt you or anything. I just-"

"A grand," Dean says again. Like he's putting much trust in a john honouring a safeword. He smiles, tries not to let it show that this is his third fuck of the night, his ninth blowjob, and he's tired and bored. "I look real pretty tied up."

The mouse is breathing heavier as he gets out and pushes the car door shut behind him. He pauses to pick up a coil of soft rope then nods towards a door into the house. "Upstairs."

The room he leads into is a pretty standard bedroom for his money - all neutral colours and discreet technology and a huge great wooden bed with carved bedposts. Dean's seen it all before, while wives are away. "I need to see the cash," Dean says and the mouse nods and goes to the bedside table. He doesn't let Dean see how much is in there but there's got to be more than the eleven hundred-dollar bills he hands to Dean. If they're fakes, they're damn good ones and Dean slips them into his jeans pocket then pulls his shirt over his head. "How do you want me?"

"Naked," the mouse says, and it's easily done, boots unzipped and kicked off and jeans following. Underwear just gets in the way when he's working. "Get on the bed." Dean starts to settle on his stomach but the mouse says, "No. On your back." Which is unusual but not unheard of, and at least it means his back isn't tempting the mouse to start flogging him or something.

The mouse knots a loop of the rope around Dean's left wrist then fastens it to the bedpost and Dean feels a faint stab of irritation. It's harder to escape with his hands separated but he studies the knots, tests the give of the rope, and he's pretty certain he could be out of there in five minutes, give or take. The mouse fastens his other wrist and, yeah, five minutes.

It isn't until the mouse gets a scarf out of the bedside cabinet and moves to fasten it round Dean's mouth that he objects. "No gagging."

The mouse stares at him as though Dean's just killed his puppy.

"Safeword's a little difficult if I can't talk and we agreed safeword."

"Another hundred," the mouse says.

Dean doubles it. And, hell, doubles it again. Why not? "Four hundred," he says. He twists and manages to knock his fist against the headboard. "And three thumps on the headboard is the safeword. Okay?"

The mouse narrows his eyes and Dean tenses, preparing to defend himself until he can get his hands free but the mouse sighs. "Four hundred." The scarf is silk, soft against Dean's lips, and something has got to go horribly wrong soon because so far this is all pretty pleasant.

The mouse runs a hand down Dean's chest. "Pretty little slut," he says softly.

Dean wants to roll his eyes. Of course the mouse is going to get off on putting Dean down. His type always does. But Dean just tugs against the ropes a little and widens his eyes and does his best to look scared. If he plays his cards right, this could turn into a cushy regular gig.

And sure, as the mouse strips, he reveals a body that Dean _needs_ to be paid to look at. Soft and white as something that lives in dark, damp corners and Dean's fucked chicks with smaller tits. The mouse rubs his own cock. "Want it, don't you, slut?"

Dean tries to look enthusiastic and wishes he'd remembered to mention condoms as the mouse eases on top of him, pushing Dean's legs apart.

"You'd beg if I let you, wouldn't you? Beg for my cock in you."

There's a noise on the edge of Dean's hearing and he wishes the mouse would shut up for a moment but he's in love with the sound of his own voice, chattering on as he pushes fingers into Dean's ass. Dean writhes obediently, opening his legs and miming pleasure but he's sure now that there's somebody else in the house and maybe this is why the mouse was so eager to get him tied up and gagged. Fuck.

His heart's racing as he starts work on unfastening the ropes and hopes the mouse won't notice in time to stop him. He's got nothing against threesomes but he hasn't been paid for one, hasn't even been warned about one, and that's not a good sign.

The footsteps are closer, right outside the bedroom, and Dean hasn't even got one hand free yet. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And then the door's open and-

It's a kid, about Sammy's age, and he's staring at the mouse with disgust.

"_Jesus_, Dad! Do you have to bring your rentboys home with you? Can't you just fuck them in an alley or something?"

* * *

Dean manages not to laugh until after the mouse has dropped him back on the street. He's been paid in full for the evening, after all, and the mouse had even asked him when he was next working.

Good night, really.

He keeps thinking that until he pulls into the school parking lot in the morning to drop Sammy off. There's a kid, about Sammy's age, lounging against an orange and black Dodge Charger and he looks up at the Impala with admiring eyes.

And then he glances at Dean and his eyes widen and the shock thumps into Dean.

It's the kid from last night. And he's watching Sam get out of Dean's car and he's starting to grin and Dean doesn't have clue one what to do about the whole mess. But then the kid just winks and turns away and maybe, just maybe, it isn't going to be a total fucking catastrophe.

Maybe.

* * *

At lunchtime, Sam slams his way into the trailer, drags Dean outside and hurls him up against the Impala. The car rocks on its shocks and Dean blinks hazily at Sam, absently glad that he bothered to put underwear on before catching up on his sleep.

"What the _fuck_ is going on, Dean?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "I think I should be the one asking that."

"For some reason, the whole school thinks that you're a whore." Sam's keeping his voice down but he's shaking. "Any idea why they might think that?"

Dean lifts his hands. "C'mon, Sammy, you know I'm not a monk."

Sam's hands tighten on Dean's shoulders, thumbs close to his throat. "There's a difference between picking up girls in bars and being paid to let men _tie you up and fuck you!_"

"Shit," Dean says softly.

"Shit? That's it? What's going _on_, Dean? Taylor Atkinson's saying he walked in on his dad _fucking_ you last night and that you were begging for it and-" Sam pushes away from Dean and scrubs at his face. "Dean. Tell me he's lying."

"He's lying," Dean says easily.

"He's not," Sam says, and he sounds tired, exhausted. "Why didn't you tell me we were so broke, Dean? I could have helped out."

Dean laughs and wishes it didn't sound so hollow. "Do you have any idea how much Dad's doctor and meds cost?"

Sam sounds painfully earnest as he says, "Does Dad know what you're doing?"

"No," Dean says. If Dad's never flat-out acknowledged it, he can say that Dad doesn't know. And if Dad can't quite look at Dean at the moment, it'll pass. It always has.

Sam doesn't look convinced but he says, "I could drop out of school," and quickly adds, "Just for a semester. So I could work full-time."

Dean shakes his head. "Nothing legal's going to touch the costs, Sammy."

"But it'll _help_." Sam's got his stubborn-as-a-mule expression. "And besides, it's not like I can go back to school now anyway."

"Why not?"

Sam stares at him like he's an idiot. He's used to it. "Because the whole school knows that my brother's a- a-"

"A hooker," Dean says and frowns as he looks past Sam's shoulder, running calculations in his head. "Give it a couple of weeks and Dad'll be okay to move. I know he wanted you to see out the rest of the school year here-" Sam gives a disbelieving snort "-but we can probably find a reason to move on."

"It's only three weeks till the end of semester," Sam says reluctantly. "It'd make more sense to move then."

"Think you can last out three weeks?"

"I could be sick?" Sam says, and Dean shakes his head.

"Three weeks, they'd want a doctor's note. Or Mr. Makeba'd send his damn wife round."

Sam sighs and leans against the car next to Dean. "So I go to school and you stay off the streets and then we get the hell out of Dodge."

"Yeah," Dean says but Sam looks at him.

"You're not gonna stay off the streets, are you?"

"Sure I am," Dean says brightly.

"Dean."

Dean rubs at his forehead and wishes his life wasn't so complicated. "Sam, we still need money. The people here know too much about us for us to be able to skip out without paying. And Dad's going to need antibiotics and painkillers for a while yet."

"Dad should be able to pay for them himself," Sam snaps. "He's the adult."

Dean just shrugs and doesn't bother pointing out that Dad's currently an adult with a leg that's a jigsaw puzzle of flesh, bone, metal pins and plaster. Sam knows it as well as Dean does.

* * *

Sam comes home from school with grazed knuckles and the beginnings of a black eye. He glowers at Dean and hides out in the bedroom. Dad watches him go but doesn't say anything, just retreats back into his journal, and Dean can't wait till they're out of this town and back to normal.

When he goes into their room to get changed for work, Sam's sprawled on his bed, feet dangling off the end of the bed as he reads a sociology textbook. He doesn't look up, doesn't even acknowledge him, and Dean's left with the uncomfortable feeling that he doesn't really exist.

It isn't until his hand's on the door that Sam mutters, "Be careful."

"Same to you," Dean says, and Sam scrunches down in his bed and grunts.

* * *

The first car that stops just wants a blowjob, claims to have had a shitty day at work and needs to unwind. Dean doesn't care about the excuse, just does the job and gets the cash.

The second car is a familiar orange Charger. Dean's half-expecting there to be a crowd of kids in it but it's just one, Taylor Atkinson. Even so, he moves back into the shadows. He doesn't want to give the little bastard any more ammo against Sammy.

But Atkinson's seen him because the window opens and he leans over. "Hey, Winchester."

It's not like Dean can back down when challenged, so he saunters towards the car. "Your dad busy?"

"He's not the only one who likes to fuck rentboys. How much?"

"You're fucked in the head, right?" Dean says before he can think. "After what you've put my brother through, you think I'll fuck you?"

Taylor looks down then glances sideways at Dean. "It was a mistake," he says, so sincerely that he's got to be lying. "I just mentioned it to one of my buddies and then it's all round school."

"Yeah, sure. The answer's still no."

"I can pay what my dad did."

For a moment, Dean's actually tempted. It'd take them so damn close to paying off Dad's bills. But then he sees Taylor's smile and, just for a moment, the maliciousness behind it and he laughs. "Not enough money in the world."

"How about doing it for your bro?" The maliciousness becomes open. "See, my dad likes to videotape his rentboys. It's why he always brings them home with him. What would Sam think if that tape did the rounds?"

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Dean can feel himself turning pale and it's hard to think through the anger but he forces himself to take a deep breath. Think. Think about how the mouse had positioned things. And... no. No, there's no way that was being played out for a camera.

Besides, fucked as it is, he kind of trusts the mouse not to go beyond what he'd paid for. Trusting a john is stupid, of course, but Dean's used to being the dumb one.

"I don't believe you," he says, and Atkinson's eyes narrow.

"You stupid whore," he says slowly. "I'm going to make your brother _suffer_. And it'll all be your fault."

Dean leans on the roof of the Charger. "The way I see it, I fuck you and you'll just have more stuff to use against him. This way - man, you couldn't get a _hooker_ to bend over for you. Talk about making yourself look bad."

"I'm gonna destroy you," Atkinson says. "You and your freak of a brother."

"Pissed that he's smarter than you? Or is it cause he wouldn't bend over for you either?" Letting his mouth run on is probably a mistake. But it's only three weeks. They can both survive three weeks of whatever this kid can throw at them.

"You are _dead_," Atkinson says, and slams the flat of his palm against the steering wheel. "Both of you, fucking _dead!_" The Charger's tyres screech and Dean stumbles slightly as it pulls out from under him.

He really hopes he hasn't under-estimated Atkinson.

A half-hour later, a cop car drives slowly past. Dean lifts a hand and Deputy Walmsley grins at him.

The cops aren't anything to worry about. He wonders what Atkinson's gonna try next.

* * *

The next night, the mouse's Lexus is waiting at Dean's usual spot. Dean's half-expecting it to be the kid inside but it isn't, it's the mouse, looking nervous and uncomfortable. Dean slides in and shuts the door behind him.

"I'm- I'm sorry," the mouse says, not looking at him. "About last time. And what my son's doing." Sammy had come home with the cold, set look that meant he was torn between misery and anger.

"But you can't make him stop," Dean says.

The mouse shakes his head. "He's angry. At me."

"I'd kind of noticed that."

"I've got a hotel room," the mouse says and glances at Dean. "Same as last time?"

"There's been a lot of expensive fall-out from last time," Dean says.

He's going to ask for another hundred but the mouse nods and says, "Two grand?"

Guilt as the great motivator. "Okay," Dean says and fastens his seatbelt. As the mouse pulls away from the curb, Dean says, "Your son told me that you got the other night on video." He keeps his voice light and unaccusing. "I'd like to see it."

"Fuck," the mouse says quietly. "His mother and I. We recorded things, a couple of times. For spice, you know?" He glances at Dean in mute appeal. "Taylor found them, after she- After she died. He." He shakes his head. "He's not dealing well."

"So you didn't tape the other night?"

"No! Not without paying!" The mouse sounds so offended that Dean rests his head against the window and laughs. After a moment, the mouse laughs too.

* * *

Dad's asleep on the sofa-bed in the living room when Dean gets in but he wakes up as Dean shuts the door.

"Hey," Dean says quietly. "Need anything?"

Dad looks at him for a long moment. "You okay?" he finally says and there's too much in the question for Dean to answer it truthfully.

"Fine," he says with a grin. "Gonna get some sleep."

Sammy's awake too, staring at the ceiling with Mister Bun absently poking out from under his pillow.

"Does anyone in this family sleep?" Dean asks and pulls his shirt over his head.

Sam shifts onto his side. "How was it?" he asks.

Dean shrugs. "Pretty good night." He doesn't say he made enough that he might not have to go back on the streets that often. Doesn't want to get Sammy's hopes up.

"Taylor was a total ass at school today."

Dean ruffles Sam's hair and grins when Sam jerks away. "You can cope, Sam. Just kick his butt."

Sam snorts.

"Look, I might have a plan on how to stop him but... Do you know when his mother died?"

"His mother's dead?"

Dean kicks his jeans off. "I'll take that as a no. Is there any chance you could get ahold of his school records for me?"

Sam frowns in thought. "Yeah, probably. Why?"

Dean shakes his head as he settles into bed. "Don't want to say yet."

A rolled up sock hits him in the face. "Mystery man," Sam says and Dean grins.

* * *

When Dean and Dad get back from the hospital, Sam's already home. Dean helps Dad to the sofa-bed and gets him settled with a glass of water and painkillers in easy reach, ignoring his grumbling complaints, and then follows Sam through to their bedroom. "Get it?" he asks.

"No problems. His mother died three years ago." Sam waves the file at Dean. "So can you share your secret plan now?"

Dean just plucks the file out of Sam's hand. "It's not a secret if I tell you."

Sam shakes his head. "You are such a loser."

* * *

The next night, the mouse takes Dean to the same hotel. Afterwards, while Dean rubs the feeling back into his wrists, he says, "So are we ever going back to your house? It's a bit more discreet than this place."

The mouse blinks a few times. "But Taylor..."

"Isn't he going on a geology field trip or something this weekend?" There'd certainly been a signed permission slip in his file. Dean smiles and tilts his head. "I could stay the whole weekend." He watches the mouse's breathing deepen.

"How much?"

"Fifteen grand."

The mouse frowns. "Ten."

"Twelve," Dean says, "And only 'cause it's you."

And then the mouse is on top of him again and Dean lets himself be shoved back onto the bed.

* * *

"I need you to look after Dad this weekend," Dean tells Sam. "I'm working."

"The whole weekend?" Sam's trying to hide it but he looks sick.

"It's part of the plan."

"Dean, it's been four days. There's nothing more Taylor can do to us." Sam's wearing the concerned frown that just makes him look constipated. "I don't want you to do anything stupid."

Maybe, but Taylor threatened Dean, threatened Sammy, and Dean's not going to let him get away with it. He smiles. "I'm not doing anything stupid, I swear. Can you and Dad avoid killing each other for a weekend?"

"I'll be good," Sam says. "Will he?"

Dean ignores him.

* * *

"I'm working this weekend," Dean tells Dad.

Dad shuts his eyes for a moment. "I need you here."

"Sam'll be around. I've already talked to him."

"That's not what I meant," Dad says, as though Dean didn't already know. "I don't want you-" He stops short.

"It's just a job." It's meant to be reassuring.

"You're not hunting. You're getting soft."

"I know, Dad. Soon as we're on the road again."

Dad turns away and lets out a grunt of pain as his injured leg hits a loose spring.

Three weeks and they're gone and this is all behind them.

* * *

"How's your brother?" the mouse asks as Dean slides into his car and it's almost enough to make Dean leave. He doesn't _like_ johns knowing anything about him. But perhaps the mouse has paid enough to be able to know a little.

"Fine," Dean says and leaves it at that.

The rest of the drive is silent until the mouse pulls into his garage and the door slides shut behind him. Then the mouse turns to him and says, "I've got some rules for the weekend."

"Sure," Dean says easily.

"No clothes." The mouse swallows. "No speaking unless I give you permission. And then you call me sir." He leans past Dean and reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out a slim leather collar. "And you wear this."

Dean takes the collar. It's not new and there's a kink around the smallest hole, where it's used to being buckled. When Dean puts it on, he has it on the loosest hole and it's still tighter than he'd like.

"You understand?"

"Yes. Sir." It all feels like a game, the same as it did in the hotel, and Dean has trouble keeping from smiling. But the mouse is glaring at him, like he wants to be menacing, and Dean pulls his shirt over his head.

"Leave it in the car," the mouse says. "Leave it all in the car."

Dean nods and slides out, strips completely. He folds his clothes and leaves them on the seat, his boots neatly lined up on the floorboard and socks tucked inside them. It isn't until the mouse shuts the door and the alarm beeps that he realises his clothes are now locked away.

Perhaps the mouse is smarter than he looks.

"Let me look at you," the mouse says, and Dean's never seen a reason to be ashamed of his body so he stands there. "Turn round."

The concrete floor is smooth and cool and gritty beneath his feet and he flexes his toes slightly as he obeys. The mouse's hand is light on his ass, stroking down, and the whole thing's completely ridiculous.

"Into the house," the mouse says, and that's the start of the weekend.

* * *

Dean's tired and sore and his muscles are complaining about spending the past hour sitting cross-legged at the mouse's feet. Outside, the sky's just beginning to get light but inside, it's porn on the television and the mouse's hand in his hair and Dean got fed up with pretending to enjoy it hours ago. He wishes the mouse would just fuck him and fall asleep.

The mouse's hand tightens in his hair, pulling Dean's head back, and Dean manages a moan of fake pleasure. "Watch them," the mouse says, and Dean watches the men on screen, one of them tied and twisted while the other two fuck him. It's just sex, just bodies, but the mouse is watching it like it's something amazing.

Dean loses track of the actors and the positions and who's fucking who but finally the mouse turns the television off and slips a finger under Dean's collar, uses it to tug him to his feet. Dean doesn't like it, doesn't like having his breathing messed with, but it's not bad enough to make him safeword out, just bad enough that he doesn't pretend to like it.

"Time for bed," the mouse says and Dean's actually relieved that they're going to get on with the fucking, going to wave hello to sanity.

Only, apparently, they're not. The mouse tugs on the collar and leads Dean upstairs but to a different room. A room that's obviously a teenaged boy's, with posters of a football team and blonde popstars and there are handcuffs on the nightstand. Dean can't help but frown as he glances round.

"You're sleeping here," the mouse says and guides Dean until he's sitting on the bed. "Hold out your hands." The handcuffs are cold and heavy around his right wrist, police issue rather than the usual bondage gear. And then he's being pushed back and the mouse fastens the other cuff to the head of the bed.

Dean opens his mouth to ask what's going on but the mouse presses his finger against Dean's lips.

"I didn't say you could talk." His voice is soft, gentle, and he tugs the bedspread up over Dean. Dean's grateful for the warmth. "You can sleep now."

He wants to ask when he'll be woken up, wants to make a smart remark to deal with the fact that this is starting to feel creepy. But the mouse smoothes his hand over Dean's hair, then grips, hard and painful, and kisses Dean and Dean's left gasping and disoriented when the mouse leaves.

The bed's warm and soft, the teenage-boy smell familiar in its mustiness, and Dean wants to sleep. But he's here for a reason and he makes himself reach out as far as he can in search of- There. Computer printout, held together with a paperclip, and it's all he needs to get himself free.

Once the cuff's off, the first thing he does is unfasten the collar and rub his neck. He stretches, rolls his head and shoulders, and then buckles it back on. He ignores the robe hanging on the back of Taylor's door and heads downstairs.

He gives himself an hour and by the end of it, he's no closer to getting what he came here for. The trouble is that the house is too damn big, too many rooms and too many places for things to be. It's tempting to keep looking but he can't rely on the mouse leaving him alone for long.

* * *

It's late afternoon when he wakes up to find the mouse standing next to the bed, watching him. Dean's first reaction is to get ready to fight and the sudden jerk as his arm is stopped short by the cuffs is painful.

The mouse doesn't say anything, just runs his finger down Dean's cheek and smiles. And then he turns and goes and Dean's left chained to the bed, shaking from the adrenaline rush.

It's dark when the mouse finally returns and Dean's bored and frustrated and just plain antsy. The mouse doesn't turn the light on before unfastening the cuff from the bed. "Stand up," he says and Dean obeys. "Put your hands behind you." The other cuff is fastened onto his left wrist. And then the mouse starts to tighten the collar.

Dean jerks away. "No," he says, firm and serious and definite, but the mouse just slaps his face and carries on tightening it. Only one hole and it's not _stopping_ him breathing, just making him notice it. "No!" he says again, and the mouse doesn't say anything but he tightens the collar another hole, carefully tucking the collar's loose end through the loop. Now he's working for every breath.

He could safeword. His hands are behind him but he can still manage three knocks.

He doesn't want to know for sure that the mouse will ignore it.

"I've got something special to show you," the mouse says, and strokes the handprint he left on Dean's cheek. "You'll enjoy it. Taylor enjoyed it."

That's not a ringing recommendation in Dean's world but the mouse has clipped a fucking dog lead to the collar and he doesn't have much choice but to follow him downstairs. Not if he wants to keep breathing.

He doesn't pay attention to the screen, just rests his head against the mouse's thigh and tries to wait it out. All the porn's been the same - one man tied up, other men using him. Dean's pretty sure by this point that it's the bondage and humiliation that gets the mouse going. It can't be anything to do with the sex.

But when he hears a woman's scream, cut off, he looks up.

It takes a moment to recognise the mouse's bedroom. The woman on the bed looks so like Taylor she's got to be his mother. So this is the tape he was looking for.

Only-

Dean's seen a lot of shit but this makes him want to hurl. This doesn't come anywhere _near_ safe, sane and consensual. This isn't 'spicing up' their fucking lovelife. This is the mouse torturing his wife.

And if the mouse is showing him this

Dean looks up. The mouse is staring at the screen and his mouth is open a little. As Dean watches, he licks his lips.

"She humiliated me," the mouse says, without looking away. "Told me I was worthless. She emasculated me." He lingers lovingly over the word. "So I told her I was going to torture her and she told me I could try. She gave me permission, you see."

Dean's thankful he's not allowed to speak because he doesn't know what he could say that would give him a chance of getting out of here alive.

"Don't worry," the mouse says, and strokes Dean's hair. "You don't make me angry. You behave." He sighs. "If she'd just behaved, everything would have been fine."

He needs his hands free. He needs to be able to breathe. He's fucking _crippled_ here; he's _let_ himself be crippled by a murderer. God, if he gets out of this alive Dad's going to _slaughter_ him. So fucking _stupid_.

"You like it, don't you?" the mouse says. "You like watching her be punished. I can tell by the way you're breathing."

Dean wants to scream that it's anger, it's disgust, but he keeps the words shut in. For now, he promises himself. Just for now.

The mouse tugs on the leash, moves Dean to kneel between his spread legs. "You can suck my cock now," he says and it's all Dean can do not to throw up. The woman's stopped screaming and now she's whimpering. "Suck it," the mouse says.

The mouse is still wearing fucking slacks and Dean may be good with his mouth but he can't undo buttons with it.

Eventually the mouse looks down and he smiles, fucking _kind_ and _gentle_, and says, "Oops." He wraps the leash around his hand a few times, holding Dean tight as he takes a key out of his shirt pocket, then moves Dean sideways.

And he frees Dean's right hand.

Dean's up and standing and he doesn't even have to think before he swing his left arm round, cuff still attached, and hits the mouse in the face. It's enough for him to jerk backwards, to let go of the leash, and that gives Dean a few seconds to unfasten the collar. He's fumbling, too desperate, too clumsy, and he can't fight if he can't breathe.

Then he's done it, the collar's off and the cuffs are a weapon, not a handicap, and he's punching the mouse, turning his face into a bloody mass and he's never enjoyed inflicting pain so much in his life.

Eventually, the mouse is unconscious, sprawled on the carpet, and Dean's splattered with his blood.

Think. He needs to think.

And he can't do that here.

He cuffs the mouse to the radiator and leaves him there before ejecting the tape from the VCR. The mouse's car keys are hanging on a pottery rack in the kitchen, all so fucking _suburban_ and _middle-class_, and Dean uses them to get at his clothes. Pulling on the familiar old jeans feels like he's becoming himself again, leaving all this behind. He pauses for long enough to wash the blood from his face and hands and then slides behind the wheel of the Lexus.

He's just about to open the garage door when he remembers and runs upstairs. In the mouse's bedroom, the same drawer he'd paid Dean from the first time. Dean counts out twelve thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. There's a few thousand left over and he shrugs and shoves it into his pocket.

He's earned it.

* * *

He dumps the Lexus a few miles from town, does his best to scrub his prints. It's not going to be enough, he knows, but hopefully they can get far enough away that it won't matter.

It takes too long to walk to their trailer and sky's already lightening with false dawn by the time he gets there. Dad's asleep and Dean just wants to crawl in next to him, pretend he's still four years old and nothing bad will ever, could ever happen.

Instead, he rests his hand on Dad's shoulder, and Dad's awake before Dean's even touched him. His eyes are sharp, not muddled with painkillers, and Dean's never been so relieved.

"What's going on?"

"I ran into trouble," Dean says and almost laughs at the understatement. "I don't know what to do now."

"Tell me."

Once Dean's finished - and he hasn't kept back a thing and he _never_ wanted to see that expression on Dad's face - Dad takes a deep breath. "This Taylor kid. He's the key. Where is he?"

"Schuyler Caves," Sam says and Dean hadn't known he was there. "The geology field trip goes there every year."

"That's, what, forty minutes away?" Dad says. "Sammy, you go and get him, bring him here."

"He won't come with me," Sam says.

"Then _make_ him. Dean, you need to help me get everything packed up." Dad looks up. "Why are you still here, Sam?"

Sam slams out the trailer.

* * *

By the time Sam gets back, they're packed and ready to go. Or as ready as they can be with Dad still pretty much immobile.

Taylor saunters into the trailer and sneers around. "The amount you were pulling in from my dad, I'd think you could afford something better."

Dad tosses the video tape to Taylor. "I'm guessing you've seen this."

Taylor looks at the writing on the tape and turns white. His voice is tight, choked, when he says, "If you're trying to blackmail me, you're out of luck."

"We're not," Dad says. "We want to help you make him pay."

Taylor puts the tape down with a hard clack. "No."

Dean blinks. "What do you mean, _no_? He killed your mother!"

"Not Not directly," Taylor says. "She committed suicide." He's frowning, not looking at any of them. "Drove her car into a tree. It was all very polite - nobody ever said suicide, it was all just a tragic accident." He finally looks up, looks at Sam. "I don't want everyone to know what she went through. Let her keep her dignity."

"Dignity's not very important when you're dead." Dad's voice is rough and Taylor jerks round to look at him. "Justice, _that's_ important."

"Revenge," Dean says, and that's when Taylor's expression changes.

"Revenge," he repeats quietly. Then he looks up. "Why can't you give this to the police yourself?"

"Ah." Dean looks at Dad, who doesn't say anything. Fuck. "There'd be questions asked about how I got ahold of it. You live in the house, it's natural."

"And?" Dad says. Dean looks at him but he just narrows his eyes.

"And I kind of beat your dad to a pulp." Dean shrugs.

"Really?" A smile spreads over Taylor's face. "_Cool._" Then his face sharpens. "So you want me to take the blame for you beating him up."

"You'll get away with it," Dad says, before Dean can say anything. "You walk in and find your dad watching that tape, it's a natural reaction. You won't even be charged."

"Besides," Sam says, "getting the credit for one of Dean's beatings? Won't do you _any_ harm at school."

Taylor looks around at all three of them, finally settling on Dean. "That good, huh?"

Dean smiles. "Better."

* * *

On their way out of town, they're passed by a couple of police cars, sirens and lights going. Dean sticks exactly to the speed limit, but the cops are going towards the Atkinson house and he could be speeding for the Indy 500 and they wouldn't pull him over.

Two days later and a thousand miles away, a news report comes on the diner television. Dean doesn't pay any attention until the mouse's face flashes upon-screen.

When he finally turns back to his dinner, his fries are cold and he pushes them away.


End file.
